The Artist
by MissLudenberg
Summary: He was already lost anyway, for so long. He had practised the simple façade of a gentleman for too long now, all of his friends should have known his impatience sooner. London would surrender at the mercy of his will. Clive-centric. Rated M for gore and/or graphic material.


I still haven't given up on Fatal Night, don't worry. As you know with me, I have these stupid spouts of writer's block where I can't write anything else but one-shots. So yes. This is the one-shot. It basically explores a fun, fun idea I had about Clive's mental stability. It is an AU...for reasons that will be revealed at the end. I wasn't sure whether to rate this as an M or a T, but just to be on the safe side I made this an M. This is quite a macabre tale, I do warn you. Just satisfying my thirst for Psycho!Clive, my favourite side of him...tee hee hee.

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The Artist 

_He was already lost anyway, for so long. He had practised the simple façade of a gentleman for too long now, all of his friends should have known his impatience sooner. London would surrender at the mercy of his will._ _Rated M for gore and/or graphic material._

The oppressive atmosphere clung to the air of the dishevelled city, lingering around corners and streets as a slight breeze drifted amongst the eerily still environment. The potent sense of discord and chaos had quietened; a chilling silence replacing its position. It was all rather unsettling. Under the heavy darkness, one could almost make out splatters of crimson dotted around as if they were careless paint patches on a young child's play mat.

Bombshells, scattered around roads as if they were normality. Broken buildings and houses had been reduced to rubble. Bodies, strewn across the stretch like dolls. The amused man observed that some had their mouths gaping open as an invitation for drool to seep from the edge, some had limbs torn off and some even had faces barely recognisable as faces anymore. All of it was almost reminiscent of some twisted work of art. Horrifically beautiful, only the man failed to recognise the horror behind it. Only the tender beauty lay in the fine sight before him.

Thin strands of lifeless hair flew beside his line of vision, carried by the gust of an empty wind. The hair was everywhere here. Were the dark, messy, stained clumps his favourite, or perhaps even the flaxen? Well it was no matter, considering that what was done had been done. His face fell, slightly crestfallen, at the fact that he hadn't even bothered arranging all of them to his liking. How childlike of an artist was he.

He wandered through what was left of the city, his breath light and his eyes distant. In one swift motion, he licked a flick of red from the corner of his lips, relishing in its sweet and pure flavour. He tasted the air. Another delicious zest swept onto his tongue and he sucked in a breath in an attempt to savour it. It hadn't been as fresh as the candied red, but of what he could sense of it—a few decaying corpses, dry blood, burnt flesh, stomach contents, faecal matter…fear…_death…—_was incredible. He suppressed the natural nausea building within him with a gulp and a convincing, ghost of a grin.

The sensation was already lost in his being. What was a _'being'_ anyway, at that (because the man certainly didn't offer himself a perspective of having one in the first place)? It was unfortunate, really. But at least this way he still remained guileless. The innocent artist _(without a being)_ returned to the small building and ambled across the wooden flooring, ignoring the obstacles arranged beneath. 'Obstacles'… No, he didn't approve of that word. '_Puzzles'_. Yes, much better. He was an artist now; his paintings could be however so he wished under his power and command.

He fell into the cold seat next to another, familiar, man who sat at the oak table also. His porcelain cup of tea still remained intact below him, although its contents had long cooled. His heavy head sagged forward slightly, the chocolate top hat resting on his crown refusing to tumble from the prompted height.

"Oh do sit upright, Professor. A good posture is becoming of any gentleman, hm?" The artist _(without a being) _beckoned to him, genuine smile growing on his face.

'Professor' didn't even spare a single glance. Was he even listening in the first place? How rude, the man thought bitterly, before his stern glare softened in consideration.

"Look, even your tea's gotten cold. Please drink some of it, okay? It would make me very happy."

'Professor' didn't deter from his ignorant stance. The artist grew impatient.

"Come now, let me fix that hat of yours. I've always admired it so. Look, it's all askew now. The Professor I know would simply not leave this be!" He declared reassuringly before reaching over and straightening the object on 'Professor's' dry hair, and when he was satisfied with his work, pulled himself back.

Another masterpiece completed.

"_Now _will you listen to me? Are you asleep, by any chance? Now isn't really the appropriate time!" The words escaping his lips began to wobble, but his expression remained unchanged.

Nothing had the courage to stir.

The artist sighed under his breath, bothered by the presence of 'Professor'. His impatience was increasing, as was his delayed sense of loneliness. Wait, _loneliness? Who was he, a child? No, he wasn't lonely! He had Professor with him, of course, and all of his friends!_

He leant over; curling around the brown-clad man's jacket and faced the glinting knife plunged into his back with firm eyes. The madness reflected from the piercing blade attempted to unearth memories of moments ago, that the artist quickly swallowed down.

"Is _this_ what's giving you trouble, eh? Will you answer me after this?"

He reached forth and, after closing his numb fingers around the solid plastic of the handle, retrieved the object out of 'Professor's' back and brought it towards himself. In response, a gurgle of air travelled from 'Professor's' throat to the back of his mouth which provoked a sudden jerking in his body. It was nothing miraculous, more short of electrical at least. A guttural noise or two cut through the air as a spurt of blood oozed from his mouth, trickling delicately down the course of his chin. Emotionless eyes stared ahead at nothing at all in particular.

"Well at least that got something out of you" The artist commented in content. He cradled the knife between loving hands, fingers elegantly caressing the maroon-splattered edge as desire flared in the form of a rancid tingle on his tongue. He winced. His eyes brought themselves past the decrepit state of the shattered window and toward the sour appearance of the sky.

"Lovely weather today, isn't it? A perfect time for all of us to spend here…" He rasped. "Together…"

The knife clattered to the floor. The sharp noise echoed throughout the building and interrupted the uncomfortable silence almost immediately, although it seemed as if the man was the only one enjoying it.

It was…peaceful.

Nothing could become between him and that _smell, touch, taste_, _sound, sight _of destruction and death.

So he had no idea why tears were streaming out of his eyes and a hollow feeling occupied the confines of his chest. His hands were trembling. His bottom lip was shaking. This hadn't been in the plan of the painting at all. Did…did this mean he had already failed at what he wanted to be?

What was he even doing, anyway? What was the artist _(without a being) _doing, stumbling around like a lost, innocent youth in a tall and scary city? He breathed out a sigh. The world around him distorted itself through his bloodshot, blurred eyes, revealing a haze of faint colours wrapped around monochrome, like a pattern. He drifted. His mind was already contorting his view of reality, and he wasn't sure at all whether or not he was at all fond of the matter.

Suddenly, a pang of emotion shot through what was left of his heart, leaving his body stinging from the grief.

_Loneliness. _

The man's detached eyes widened as he sprung out of the chair. His hands gripped at his elbows and nails scratched through the blue jacket, clawing at the skin beneath. There was no longer pain that he could feel from the cutting of his flesh, there was only that _horrible, horrible _stinging in his body. He keeled over, shrieks emitting from the back of his throat until the muscle had dried and turned raw.

"How could you just _leave me here?!_" The artist screamed out, his tantrum much alike a child's as he writhed frantically on the flooring. "_You were supposed to __**save me!"**_

The knife was quickly swept off of the floor. The man staggered over and knocked the top hat to the ground, grabbed a fistful of that thick bronze hair and thrust the head back, 'Professor's' eyes rolling skyward at the movement.

Without a second thought, the knife was maliciously stabbed into his face in a violent eruption of red and a deafening cracking that only deepened the man's thirst for more. This was the only passion he had left that filled the cavity inside; madness was the only way out. Over and over the knife was driven in, with each throw a chuckle had found a way outside the artist's lips, until the face was gone and only a putrid deformation of blood and bones was left, and the artist had collapsed to his knees in howls of psychotic laughter.

This was all too much.

There was no other choice but to marvel at this extravagant masterpiece he had built around himself, oh, how beautiful everything was. So _peaceful_. So _relaxing_. So _fulfilling_. It was a happy dream, imagined by one who had only known tragedy for the entirety of life.

'Professor' had been the last of the artist's creation. He had been saving him for this special honour, after all. It _had _been deeply satisfying in the end, but…

_I want more._

…_This…isn't over yet. Tee hee hee. It isn't. It isn't. It isn't._

His pupils dilated as his smirk developed into an insane grin of delight. His head lolled to the side, as, from the blue pocket, he familiarised himself with his other instrument of fun again beside the _pretty, pretty, pretty _blade.

The culmination hadn't even begun yet! To _think _he had forgotten so simply. Perhaps if _**Fedora**_ were here then he would have reminded him about it.

_Oh yeah…he didn't know._

_Know about what?_

_Know about __**this**__…my wonderful, joyful, exuberant final piece as an artist of revenge, heh heh heh._

_Oh, __**that**__. Too bad Fedora isn't here anymore, isn't it?_

He paused.

_No…he is here. With all my other lovely friends laying in this city, like that small boy__who looks like me, and that other girl in the dress and those inspectors and that woman (is she even still here?) and those Family people and Professor. __**It's too bad that they've gotten dirty, though. Actually, red is a great colour on them all, so they shouldn't mind much, right?**_

With that, the artist picked himself up with a newfound naive spring in his step, revelling in the thick aroma of innards and decay before sprinting out of the small building and to the speedboat chained to the dock bobbing in the murky, ominous waters. The silence was still lingering. It was time to bring his talents up to the city above. They would know his revenge. They would know his _art._

He was already lost anyway, for so long. He had practised the simple façade of a gentleman for too long now, all of his friends should have known his impatience sooner. One city had already fallen to its knees in a bloodthirsty massacre _(no, no, no, that was __**art**__), _and so now, London would surrender at the mercy of his will.

It was only a matter of time.


End file.
